


Winter Wonderland

by catko



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fic, holiday fic, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 03:51:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2908340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catko/pseuds/catko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg accepts an invitation for him and Mycroft to spend Christmas with Mummy and Daddy Holmes. And it's snowing.</p><p>For a prompt fic challenge at LJ's Game of Cards. Used these prompts:<br/>--“Christmas invitation (invited by the in-laws/family)” from sa_brina86;<br/>--“In the meadow we’ll build a gay snowman” from jacquelee; "snow pirates" from katleept;<br/>--“At Christmas, all roads lead to home” from stellicidio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter Wonderland

Mycroft deposited his umbrella and hat in their customary places in the entry, and brushed off some flakes of snow from his shoulders. “White Christmas,” he thought to himself, noting how prosaic his random musings had become since Gregory Lestrade had entered his life. Seemed such commonplaces were infectious. Not that he minded, really—it was a fair trade off for all the joys that Gregory had brought along with him. The only negative was the extra effort required to avoid such utterances around his brother, who would surely pounce and torture like a cat with a captured mouse. 

Speaking of Gregory, whose voice could be heard from the kitchen, punctuated by a final clatter and a two-toned ring. Mycroft’s head turned sharply. Using the landline, then; highly uncommon, who on earth would be … oh, no.

He hastened to the kitchen, where the fetching sight of his beloved wrapped in an apron was only just enough to temper his growing concern. Greg, catching sight of him, waved a wooden spoon with a grin. “Welcome home, love. Just off the phone with—“ Mycroft closed his eyes, bracing, “—your parents!” He neared Mycroft, gave a quick kiss, and went back to stirring the pot of tomato sauce. “They’ve decided not to go to the South of France for the holiday—your Dad’s sciatica is acting up—so they’ve invited us for the overnight, nice, eh? I told ‘em we’d be down on the early train.” Continuing to stir, he began humming an off-key but recognizably Christmas tune.

Mycroft fought off a wave of dizziness as images flooded past: his mother’s mashed potatoes, being drugged by Sherlock’s confederate, a nightmarish helicopter ride, his brother shooting dead a blackmailing publishing magnate….

Noticing his silence, Gregory looked over, and, ceasing his humming, said with concern, “You all right, love? Little tired from your day? Well hurry upstairs and change out of that straitjacket, get comfy, and come on back for some spaghetti and meatballs. Usual fare, I’m afraid, but tomorrow it’ll be all roast and two veg, your mum promised.” Smacking his lips, he chuckled in anticipatory delight. “Plus, if I’m not wrong, it’ll be a White Christmas!” 

Mycroft found a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Ah, well. He could not deny his Gregory anything, so Christmas in the country it would be. And certainly it could be no worse than the last time. He sketched a gesture to his lover, who had recommenced his tuneless yet festive humming, and went upstairs to check on his tweeds and brogues. 

***

Mycroft steeled himself not to shiver as he brushed a large snowflake off his nose. It would not do to let Gregory know of his discomfort—pressed up against him as he was, as they trudged arm-in-arm, wellies crunching over the icy layer on the brick pathway. Gregory, for his part, was humming merrily, interspersing the occasional happy, random lyric or two. “Da-da-da-de-daah-dah, walking’ in a Winter Wonderland.” He halted their movement and gestured broadly around. “It is, yeah?” he called out cheerfully. “It really is a Winter Wonderland!” He turned, grinning, to Mycroft, who couldn’t resist a broad smile of his own, beautiful as he found the countenance of his companion. “Musta been something, growing up here,” Gregory continued, as they began walking again. 

Mycroft suppressed a grimace as he thought of the variegated childhoods he and Sherlock had experienced: indeed an amalgam of happy and miserable and deadly dull. A pleasant memory did surface as he looked at the frosty trees. “There were a few years….when Sherlock was quite young. We invented a game called Snow Pirates.” He smiled fondly as he remembered his brother sliding down the roof into a tall snowbank, clutching a cardboard sword and yelling “Avast, ye brigands!”

Greg grinned and began singing again. “In the meadow we can build a snowman…” They had reached the gate and were looking out over the snowy vastness of the back field. He turned to Mycroft, eyes alight. “Let’s do it! Let’s build a snowman. A GAY snowman!” He dropped Mycroft’s arm and pushed through the gate, trotting out onto the field. This time Mycroft didn’t bother to suppress his expression; aghast, he called after Gregory the first thing that came out of the riot of reactions he felt toward this idea. “‘Gay’ snowman? Why’ gay’, for pity’s sake?”

Lestrade turned back toward him and threw up his arms. “Because we’re gay, and we’re making the snowman!” he chortled, and bent down to scoop up a handful of snow. “Well you needn’t shout about it,” muttered Mycroft, as he stalked forward. “Besides, while that sobriquet certainly applies to me, I didn’t realized you had adopted it as an identifier.” With this, he pulled up face-to-face with Gregory, who was clutching a handful of snow and looking pink-cheeked, bright-eyed, and, frankly, quite delicious. Gregory gave a cheeky grin. “Dunno for sure, but I'm happy, I know that much.” He leaned forward as if for a kiss, thrust the handful of snow into Mycroft’s face, spun and took off running. Mycroft stood stunned for a moment, then icy delight took over. “Arghhhh, I’ll get you for that!” he shouted, as he bent to scoop a handful of snow and go in hot pursuit.

***

Mycroft pulled the travel blanket a little higher. The first-class car was rather chilly, though Greg’s warm form, snuggled up beside him, helped ward of the cold admirably. Didn’t do much for his left side, however. The heat source in question snorted and moved his head on Mycroft’s shoulder, and under the blanket Mycroft soothed the strong thigh pressed against his. All in all, that hadn’t gone so badly. His parents had been delighted to have the company; the cottage had been warm and snug; save for the inane, though ultimately rewarding, forays out of doors; the food had been strangely comforting; and Greg had enjoyed himself thoroughly. The only thing lacking had been any encounters of a more intimate nature, neither of them being willing to attempt such a thing in such close environs, but that could be rectified immediately once they returned home, which shouldn’t be much longer now.

Greg stirred, and in that peculiar symbiosis that often occurred between them, muttered, “Are we almost there?” “Yes, we are almost home,” said Mycroft gently. Greg sat up, blinking. “Home? Weren’t you just at home?”

Mycroft thought for a moment, put his arm around Greg’s shoulder, and urged him back down. “Yes, my love, yes,” he whispered affectionately. “Wherever you are with me, that is my home.”

“Mmmmm,” hummed Greg drowsily. “S’at’s sweet.” He cozied up against Mycroft and chuckled. “Snow pirates,” he murmured, then began snoring. Mycroft held him close as the train swayed toward London, toward home.


End file.
